A Surreptitious Love Affair
by ephieshine
Summary: KakaSaku oneshot collection with various ratings and genres. Lemons, angst, humour, and romance (okay, mostly smut) - what else could you ask for? Prompts will be taken into consideration.
1. What Little Comfort

**Hello Fanfiction readers!**

**Here is my collection of KakaSaku oneshots, most of which will be too long to be called drabbles. Stories vary in rating and genre, although most will be rated M (because who doesn't like smut?). Refer to the first few lines of each chapter for a summary, rating, and genre. Important note: This first story does not dictate the mood of the rest; not many will be this angsty. Pretty much all of the stories will be romance, but the secondary genre can be Friendship, Humour, Angst, and so on. **

**I do take prompts – feel free to leave one in a review. If it sparks my imagination, I will use it in a later oneshot and thank you profusely. :)**

**Happy reading!**

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**Summary: When all goes wrong, people take what little comfort they can get from each other. Angsty, citrusy mature content.**

**Rating: M**

**Genre: Romance/Angst**

**Foreword: This oneshot is an alternate timeline that will never, ever become canon. But nonetheless, humour me. :) The stilted language and stream-of-consciousness phrasing are for effect. Un-beta'd.**

**What Little Comfort**

He is surprised to see her there, the pink tresses of her hair blowing gently in the wind. Her shoulders are hunched, as if braced against the breeze. The clouds cast looming shadows across the memorial stone despite it being only late afternoon; the clouds hang low in the sky, threatening rain.

"Kaka-sensei!"

She stumbles to her feet as she notices him, brushing grass from her legs. Dried tears make streaks on her face and make her lashes stick together like dango sauce.

"You don't need to call me that, Sakura," he says evenly. He isn't fit to be called a teacher to anyone.

She worries her lip, straight white teeth biting the soft pink flesh. "I didn't know you were back already."

"I left the ANBU post as soon as I heard." His heart is heavy. "I'm so sorry, Sakura."

She doesn't speak, and the tears flood her eyes again, renewing the dried tracks on her cheeks. Angrily, she wipes them away with the back of her hand.

"Why, Kakashi?" she pleads. "Why would he do something like that? _How_ could he do that?"

"He's not the Sasuke you know anymore," he replies quietly, even though inside he is wondering the same thing.

The sky gives in, begins to weep. The drizzle washes away the tears on her face, but her puffy red eyes betray her, reveal that she has been crying.

She begins to leave, glancing back at him hastily, knowing that he came here to be alone, too.

"Kakashi." Her voice is strong again, not quavering at all. "I'm coming with you tomorrow."

He knows there is nothing he can say to dissuade her. She is hurting just as much as he, if not more, and there is nothing Tsunade could have said to stop him. He knows she is capable, that her feelings will not endanger the mission. She cut her ties to the brooding Uchiha long ago – she is as determined as Kakashi to end him.

He nods, his back to her. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

When she leaves, he gazes at the cenotaph.

_You would have gotten along with Obito, Naruto._

::~::

Kakashi's eyes fly open.

He staggers to his feet, wincing as acrid smoke stings his eyes, his skin. At least two of his ribs are broken, likely from the time Sasuke had thrown him through the mountain. He can't feel his right arm.

He doesn't know how Naruto managed to damage one of Sasuke's eyes, but the handicap was the reason Kakashi had won. That, and the fact that he has let go of any qualms of killing Sasuke.

"Sakura!" he coughs out, but a hollow ringing is all he hears in her ears. He's temporarily deaf. "Sakura!"

_Please be alive. _

His chakra deprivation is severe, and his non-Sharingan eye scans the rubble for the colour pink. His other eye is shut, an acute pain lancing through it. He can feel blood seeping through his eyelid, trickling down his cheek.

_There!_

He lurches forward, ignoring the increasing pain in his ribs, straining towards the pink hair that peeks out from the wreckage. When he gets there, he falls to his knees, hands scrabbling, trying to push the debris aside.

There's movement. Her slender fingers emerge, and before he can move, a chakra-infused punch knocks all the rubble apart, setting her free.

He's knocked backwards, but he can almost cry in relief.

She's alive.

Dark, inky lines decorate her face – Tsunade's jutsu. She staggers into his arms, aggravating his broken ribs, but he doesn't care. All that matters is that she's alive, in his arms. Safe.

She's sobbing, and he reads her lips whispering things like _I was so scared you were dead_, and _I couldn't have gone on without you_. He holds her silently, unable to speak himself.

She seems to realize how damaged his body is, and her lips move faster – he can't read them anymore. The ringing in his ears gets louder, and his left leg gives out.

He's on the ground, sharp rocks digging into his flesh. He sees her lean over him, face contorted in concern as the green glow of chakra surrounds her hands, presses against his chest.

_It's over. _

Darkness tugs at him, and he relents, falling into unconsciousness.

::~::

"How much have you had to drink?" she asks angrily, and she is beautiful when her eyes glow passionately like that. He hasn't seen that light in his own eyes in some time.

"I don't know," he responds honestly, and he truly doesn't. He has been here all day.

There is hurt in her eyes, and he wonders vaguely what he has done wrong. Then he remembers that he is poison, toxic to anybody around him, and he understands. His behaviour has been hurting her, but he does not know how to help her.

"I'm sorry," he says, but they are empty words and both of them know it.

He wonders idly where he went wrong, what he could have done to change things. He wonders if Naruto would have been alive had he been a better teacher, a better guide. He wonders if he should have killed Sasuke the day he tried to kill Sakura so many years ago.

With a groan, he tips the bottle of shochu back again, but its path to his alcohol-stained lips is stopped by a firm, slender hand.

"Sakura," he warns, anger lacing his tone. "Let go."

She doesn't listen. She hasn't listened to him for quite some time now, and he doesn't blame her. There is disgust in her eyes as she picks up a napkin to wipe his lips and chin roughly. He gives in when she tugs the bottle away from him.

Surprise floods him when she suddenly leans in, winding her soft, feminine arms around his neck, pressing her body flush against his. He can feel hot droplets of moisture on his cheek – is she crying?

"You can't just give up like this, Kaka-sensei," she says thickly, a hiccup accentuating her words. He hasn't heard her call him that in a while. "I can't… I can't bear to see you like this."

He sits still, waiting for her bout of emotion to be over. _She will be fine, _he lies to himself. He knows he cannot give her the peace of mind she wants.

She slowly pulls away, and he can see evidence of tears on her damp lashes and overly-bright eyes. Her nose is pink; her lower lip wobbles as her beryl eyes gaze at him, beseeching.

"Please," she begs. "It isn't your fault – I know how you must be feeling –"

He pushes away from the table so hard the wood splinters a little. He lands on his feet unsteadily; his chair falls with an almost-deafening clatter. "You have no fucking idea what I'm feeling," he grinds out, and he kicks the chair, vindictive satisfaction filling him as it shatters into countless pieces. He staggers out of the bar.

He doesn't glance back at Sakura, whose eyes are filled with almost as much fear and bewilderment as the bartender's.

Even if he had, his alcohol-muddled mind would have readily rid him of his guilt.

::~::

He knows why she is here, at his apartment door at two in the morning. He knows why she hesitates nearly three whole minutes before knocking.

When he opens the door, he knows why she is dressed in a ratty tank and sleep shorts, why her hair is soaked from the absence of an umbrella.

The soaked tank top clings to her body, hugs her curves, reveals cold-stiffened nipples. When her haunting jade eyes look up into his, he knows why there is no embarrassment in those eyes.

Between them, there is no shame in asking for what little comfort they can offer one another. After all they have been asked to do, after all they had done, after all they had gone through together, it would be imprudent to try and endure the pain alone. Even if just for a night, they could endure it together.

"I'm sorry to have woken you up," she says softly as her rain-chilled hands come up to thread in his hair and pull down his mask. She doesn't know that he hasn't truly slept in days. Her eyes close, damp lashes brushing her cheek as she presses her forehead against his chin.

He knows this feeling – this feeling of needing to be _with_ someone, to ascertain they are there through touch and smell and taste. The Third Shinobi War had ended with similar sentiments; Kurenai and even Anko had sought this comfort from him.

He lets her in, and her hand clings to his as he leads her to his bed.

There is no thought as his hands stroke down her shoulders, where one strap of her tank top as fallen. His mouth travels to her neck, her earlobe, her throat, making her shiver as he pushes her gently to sit against the bed; he braces himself over her, relishing in the skin-to-skin contact.

Her hands move over his shoulders, his arms. She tugs the thin sweater up, slides a hand along his flat stomach. Her nails scratch lightly against his abdomen and chest. Her lips part in a small moan; her hips grind restlessly against his.

She tilts her face up, lips seeking his, but he turns away, hiding his face in the crook of her shoulder.

Kissing is intimate – it is something beyond sex, beyond fucking. And he knows that _fucking_ is all this will be.

His teeth score small marks just above her clavicles as he grinds his hips against her sleep shorts. He can feel the heat of her through the flimsy material. There is a growing tightness in his pants, straining against the sweatpants.

She yanks at the sweater again, and he relents, pulling it over his head. She bites her lip, wetting the pink skin; her finger traces old, faded scars on his ribs, on across his hipbones. Mementos of the past, touched by the present, unwanted reminders in the future.

Her soaked tank top comes off next – his eyes travel over her bare breasts and stomach slowly. Her arms come up to reach for him again, but he pins them above her head, fingers of one hand encircling both her slender wrists. Her beryl eyes follow his movements avidly and the muscles of her abdomen flex faintly. He takes his time exploring, pressing light kisses over her throat and shoulders, using his tongue to feel the quick flutter of her pulse at her throat, making her shiver.

Her breasts are beautifully rounded. Soft, pink areolas. His unoccupied hand squeezes her breast; his tongue plays with the nipple of the other. Her breath catches, her back arches to press herself against him more firmly.

Her skin is cool and damp from the rain, but warms quickly with his touch. Her legs come up to cradle his hips; he lets go of her wrists briefly to fling away the sleep shorts.

She isn't wearing panties, and he can smell the musk of her arousal. He growls in approval, one hand moving down to investigate the slickness, the other already back above her head, holding her wrists firmly.

He likes that she can't touch him. He likes that he is in control, that he is the one calling the shots, deciding how far each touch and caress goes.

He doesn't like how she looks up at him in rapture, her lips forming his name beseechingly, trustingly as he finds her clit, so he tears his gaze away from her face.

She writhes beneath him, flat stomach rippling as she strains against him, arching into his hand. She utters a small cry; he dips a finger inside her, slick with her arousal. He lets go of her wrists, using that hand to unfasten the knot of his sweatpants, pushing the heavy material down with his briefs.

She stares in rapture; her eyes follow the trail of silver hair down to his manhood, jutting out from his body. She sits up slightly, wraps her dainty fingers around him, squeezes gently, experimentally. He groans softly, stepping closer, between her legs. His knees touch the bed; her legs wrap around his waist, bringing him closer.

Her slim fingers guide the head of his cock to her entrance. He rubs against her, coating himself with her slickness before he enters her slowly, filling her.

Her lips part, her eyes close.

The first thrust is hard, and she gasps, turning her face against the pillow. He sets a steady pace, watching her miniscule changes in expression, relishing in the little moans of pleasure.

He leans forward until their torsos are pressed together feverishly, running his tongue over the fine ridges and valleys of her throat and collar. Her hips come up to meet his in a desperate clash, eliciting a hiss from him.

"Harder," she demands, her breaths harsh. Her eyes are bruised, lost. He grunts, obliging, and he pumps into her harder, faster. But it is not enough for her; she sinks her fingers into his ass, urging him on.

He can't; he feels his own climax approaching with the momentum of a freight train. He reaches a deft hand between them, finding the sensitive nub of flesh between her legs.

Her neck tautens, her eyes squeeze shut, tiny beads of condensation on those dark lashes. He knows that she is close. Her lips whisper his name just then – _Kakashi_, she sighs – surprising him; it feels too personal, too intimate, as if it were more than just sex.

It isn't, he tells himself. He _knows_ that it isn't.

A small cry escapes her lips, and her hips buckle up. He can feel her pulsating around him like a vise as her nails score the skin on his back; he lets himself go with a bitten-off curse, his seed spurting hotly inside her. Stifling a moan, he bites his lip so hard he tastes blood.

They come together – they are light-years apart. They lose themselves in one another – they have never been so lost in themselves.

When the waves of pleasure begin to subside, he sags weakly against her, their breaths mingling. His forehead rests against her shoulder, damp with a thin layer of perspiration.

When she turns her head to slant her mouth against his, he is too spent to stop her. She kisses him gently, frowning when she notices the metallic tang of his blood, where he has bitten himself too hard. She doesn't pull away, and she tastes like nectar mixed in with the blood, like salvation dangling sweetly before him.

But he knows there is no salvation for somebody like him. Even Sakura, who has remained so beautifully innocent despite what she has had to do, cannot offer redemption to him.

He pulls out of her slowly, feeling the wetness of their joining. Wearily, he guides her under the covers. She follows sluggishly, collapsing against him.

He lies flat on his back, uncharitable, unrelenting. His arms rest at his sides – they don't try to touch her. She curls up against him, her head on his shoulder, her leg pressed to his. Her petite figure wreathes around his, drawn like a moth to flame, seeking warmth.

The pitter-patter of rain on the roof and against the window lulls him to the verge of sleep – it is a familiar feeling, a state he has experienced all too often recently. But the difference is that, tonight, he feels the final tug, that which will drag him into a land of oblivion.

Almost indiscernible from the whisper of rain, he hears an utterance.

"I love you, Kakashi…"

He attributes it to the rain, feigns sleep. He knows she will be gone by morning.

When morning breaks, he is surprised to feel the pressure of a soft body pressed against his.

He doesn't know why she is still here. What little comfort they had given each other last night was not enough – would never be enough. It is time for them to go their separate ways, find solace in loneliness, piece in solitary suffering; he extricates himself from her tangle of limbs.

He leaves without a sound, telling himself her naiveté will wear off soon, that she will realize this is not love.

He's not so sure what he knows anymore.


	2. Rose on Ivory

**Summary: Sai and his artistic take on our favourite sensei and student.**

**Rating: K+**

**Genre: Romance/Friendship**

**Rose on Ivory**

It's strange, the way they circle one another, cautious yet hasty, restrained yet unfettered.

As an artist, Sai is trained to notice these subtleties, nuances that complete a perfect painting. Whether or not he himself possesses emotions is a different matter; paintings only come to life when emotions are captured, passion splayed on canvas with every stroke of the brush.

He doesn't usually name his paintings, but there is a title on the tip of his tongue, something he knows will suit them the couple perfectly. He can't quite place his ink-splattered paintbrush on it though.

He decides to observe them more closely.

If he were to compare them to fire, Sakura would be quick-burning tinder – quick to ignite but also quick to abate. Anything can cause her to spark up in anger and passion: an obnoxious voice, a persistent enemy, a bored look on someone's face, or even a genuine attempt at a friendly nickname… (Sai still doesn't understand why she holds a grudge against him for that to this day. After all, he's made progress with Ino's nickname.)

On the other hand, Kakashi would be a large log, wholly unresponsive to most stimuli, but when he catches on fire, the embers take much longer to subside. Sai has seen this in his anger towards Sasuke,

He is constant where she is variable, sturdy where she is malleable, unrelenting where she is forgiving. But at the same time, she refuses to submit herself to him, and there is an initial struggle of power before they lapse into a comfortable compromise, in which they are equals.

They keep their relationship a secret for now, and Sai can respect that. He's probably the only one who's caught on by now: of the people closest to them, Naruto is too slow to notice anything out of the norm, and Yamato would deny it to the ends of the earth if he was asked about it. Now that the war is over, they are viewed more as comrades than as sensei and pupil; there would be little, if any, stigma were they to be less subtle with their relationship.

But perhaps it is less of what others would think, and more of their inherent personalities. They do not seek the attention, and they do not need anybody's approval. They are both quiet souls – yes, even Sakura, after all she has gone through during the war – when it comes to personal matters.

Out of peacetime boredom, he watches them sometimes through the eyes of his ink animals, intrigued by the pair: there is a dichotomy between them, but also a sort of uniformity. Their hands fit together like puzzle pieces when they think nobody is around, their heads bump together tenderly. They go out at night, meeting on rooftops and secluded havens like their nearly-secret grove in the forest.

Tonight they meet on top of the Hokage's monument, perched on the cliff with their legs dangling over the edge. Their hands are entwined and their thighs touch. Their heads are tilted towards one another, and Sakura leans against him, moulding her figure to his, seeking the body heat he provides on the breezy night. In his own apartment, Sai watches from the eyes of an inky mouse sitting behind them, the tip of his paintbrush poised on the canvas, prepared to take the first stroke. But the moment is not yet ripe.

They stay like this for quite some time in gentle silence, overlooking the village in which their lives have and continue to unfold. A real mouse discovers Sai's animation, whiskers twitching curiously.

Then Sakura's face turns to her lover, angled upwards with parted lips and closed eyes. Kakashi too, turns; his masked lips meet hers. The brilliance of the moon against a faintly-twinkling velvet sky is a sight to behold; in the foreground, a breeze teases the tendrils of Sakura's pink hair, making it fan out onto Kakashi's subdued silver.

_There. Perfect._

Sai memorizes the scene, dark eyes closing briefly as the first stroke of his paintbrush meets the empty canvas. His brush moves quickly, a practiced speed that was learned through battle and desperation. The picture begins to appear, the muted hues, grays and blues predominating, shadows plentiful compared to the one source of light, the moon. Gentle but certain lines frame their entwined figures; soft, creased cloth encases their bodies.

And the last splash of colour surprises the artist himself.

Sakura's hair comes out brighter, more vibrant than he has intended, and although the silvery mess that is Kakashi's hair pales in comparison, it serves as a warm complement, a serene background that is subtly alive.

Unconsciously, Sai's lips curve upwards. He dispels his inky mouse, surprising its furry companion, as Kakashi begins to pry Sakura's vest off, their kiss growing deeper. Sai's work here is done, and for once he has a name for it.

_Rose on Ivory._


End file.
